Like Father, Like Daughter
by SarahSwan7
Summary: One-shot, set after Series 8. Sir Jocelyn Myers gets a visitor.


He walked the London streets with his head held high, back straight, coat flapping in the breeze that shook the early morning air. To the onlooker he seemed noble, his mere presence possessing a kind of grace and importance with every step that his sleek leather shoes took. His expression, however, was one that could render milk and any other form of dairy product positively sour.

The walk would not have been far on foot but the drizzle peppering from the greying clouds persuaded him to hail a taxi, clambering into the warm, leathered vehicle with a ten pound note in his hand and directions on his tongue. Upon arrival at his destination he was ushered into the building by a stern security man who took one look at him and deduced that he was completely incongruous in a setting such as Wormwood Scrubs, but he had a duty to complete and wouldn't be swayed by the judgement of those he faced.

"I have an appointment to see Sir Jocelyn." His words, ever-efficient, carried through the sludge-coloured reception crisply.

"Name?"

"Harry Pearce."

...

"Harry?" Sir Jocelyn Myers exhaled a laugh at the sight of his visitor. "You look older."

Harry ignored the comment that he knew to be true - recent events had caused his mind to slow down, his motivation and purpose dulled by a suffocating blanket of grief. He took a seat in the bare room and cleared his throat.

"I'm here to tell you about Ros."

"My Ros?" Jocelyn asked dismissively.

_What other Ros could there be, you bloody imbecile?_ Harry bit his tongue and nodded in assent.

"Well, what about her?" he snapped.

Even when conversing with such an unpleasant man, Harry tried to summon sensitive sentences to soften the blow of his news but the sheer shock of it and bitterness he felt made him spit out the three words he prayed he would never have to hear: "Ros is dead."

Jocelyn looked confused for a second. Then a tiny smile crawled onto his lips. Then he became aware that this wasn't some kind of cruel joke.

"Dead?" he asked uncertainly. "Are you sure?"

"Unless Ros possessed some remarkable genetic condition in that she was flameproof, there was no chance that she could have survived the massive bomb that went off at a hotel earlier this week," Harry snapped. His intention had been to break the news gently and beat a hasty retreat but something about the man's nature was so infuriating to Harry that the comment slipped out before he could suppress it. He tried to remember that this was Ros' father, a man she had hero worshipped, and seeing as she was dead Harry felt he should at least try to show some respect. He collected a breath of the stale air and attempted to unknot his eyebrows from their adamant frown.

"She was at that bombing?" Jocelyn sounded mildly impressed. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Your daughter died trying to save the Home Secretary." Harry's voice was toneless, as if he were narrating someone else's news and not talking about a recently deceased colleague and close friend.

Jocelyn chuckled. "That's my girl - protecting her country to the death. I'm proud of her."

Harry stifled incredulous laughter with every fibre of his being. "Forgive me for my disbelief, but the last time our paths crossed you were planning to take down the Government."

"And look where it got me." Jocelyn gestured to the yellowing walls of their current location which Harry had taken little time to assess, intent on getting this awful conversation over and done with. They were seated in a room so small it could have been a cupboard, with flimsy fold-up chairs and a metal table between them and a guard by the heavy door. This was the life that Sir Jocelyn Myers, formerly respected figure and rich family man, had been living for over three years now, with a gruelling seventeen years left of his sentence. Harry took in his appearance properly – he looked exhausted, but still had that detestable smirk and glint of confidence in his eyes.

"But Ros was different," Jocelyn continued. "She tried to stop me being involved. I knew she'd be better off with you people."

Harry coughed to try and dispel the lump that had formed in his throat. "Did you ever try to contact her after you were sentenced, or vice versa?"

"She did at first, but I never replied." Harry winced at his casual tone and thought of the hurt she must have felt at her father's rejection - Jocelyn must have sensed Harry's disgust as he added, "I didn't want to cause her any more harm. She got the message eventually, although she wrote me a rather odd letter once."

Harry sat up straighter in his seat. "What did it say?"

"It was around two years ago. Ros was never one to exaggerate or seek out pity but she sounded so desperate that I knew something must be terribly wrong. She asked to meet, but of course I couldn't. I sent someone, but she never arrived. I thought-"

Harry shook his head. Two years ago: the time of her Yalta wrongdoings and faked death. Just thinking about that time made Harry feel fatigued – he'd almost lost one strong officer in Adam due to his emotional collapse and had been relying on Ros more than ever when she took a little trip along the avenue of betrayal. Anger didn't even begin to cover what he had felt, but Harry always knew that Ros – unfaltering brave, terrifyingly brilliant and secretly someone who cared for people - never meant to cause the harm she did. The exposure of Juliet Shaw as the mastermind of traitor headquarters had made his mind reel; throw on top the supposed death and subsequent departure of Ros, followed so quickly by the revelation of what really happened to Zaf and then Adam's awful end and Lucas' return, all of which heaped an extra suitcase of guilt atop his stack of plenty, ensured that Harry's facade of unflinching superior was slipping through his fingers. Connie's betrayal had caught him off guard, as had the senseless murder of young Ben Kaplan. When Ruth had been returned to him Harry felt as if his team was finally being put back together before it became apparent that she was too crippled by her own grief to even look in his direction, and suddenly Malcolm had retired and Jo had died and Harry had never felt so bloody alone in his entire life, driven only by excessive alcohol, rage and a want for revenge, none of which were helping him deal with the sorrow digging its claws into his head and heart.

One piece of glorious familiarity still trotted into work, miraculously salvaged from her expulsion to Moscow. She still had her trademark terrifying stare and still punished his feelings of self-pity and still sparkled like a lost gem amongst the rubble. And now she was gone.

"There were operational complications for which she was reprimanded," Harry said emptily.

"I suppose you can only be so vague." Jocelyn looked unsurprised but a trifle hurt before his face moved back into the recognisable sneer. "Any other news?"

Harry was astounded that a man upon hearing of his child's death could appear to be so unfazed, but then he became distinctly aware that a man as slippery as Jocelyn could effortlessly shove his feelings away from the surface and pretend all was rosy with the world.

_Like father, like daughter _Harry couldn't help but think.

"There'll be a memorial service, but it'll have to be private for security reasons." Harry always hated that line; how awful and inappropriate it felt to close off family and friends from saying goodbye to the real part of the person they thought they knew, keeping the lie in place right to the end. Harry was dreading the day, knowing that someone as brilliant as Ros who had sacrificed so much for so many wouldn't ever get the recognition she deserved.

"Of course." Jocelyn lowered his eyes and nodded to himself and Harry knew the conversation was nearing an end.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he commented out of habitual politeness, despite his dislike of the man before him.

"Don't be," said Jocelyn dismissively. "But I'm sorry for yours."

Harry hesitated from getting to his feet and looked at him curiously, causing Jocelyn to elaborate.

"You meant something to her, I'm sure. Moral decency might not, on the surface, have appeared to be Ros' preference, but she was passionate about this country. I knew, even when she was just a teenager, that Ros would be a very intelligent, ruthless and brilliant asset to whatever career she turned her bored hand to – but spying thrilled her. I thought I knew that the most, but now I realise that you did. You knew her better and you did her better than I did, and for that I thank you, Harry."

Jocelyn moved his eyes back to the floor, seemingly annoyed that he had suddenly had a moment of such genuine kindness and sincerity.

Harry nodded. "Thank you." His voice was dull. He rose, watching the guard select the key and unlock the door.

"If I outlive my sentence perhaps we can have a whisky in your cosy office sometime and share stories of the Ros we knew."

Harry honestly couldn't tell if Jocelyn was joking or sincerely trying to begin a tenuous friendship, but the mere thought of just talking about her without the connotations of hurt and pain brought a tiny smile to Harry's mouth for the first time in weeks. Maybe he could even try to forget the uncomfortable and displeased feeling he felt in Jocelyn's presence – if he outlived the remainder of his sentence, it was an offer Harry would take up.

He'd do anything for Ros.

"I should like that, Sir Jocelyn. Take care."

"And yourself-" He doffed an imaginary cap- "Sir Harry."

Harry carried the tiniest of smiles on his face for the duration of that day, feeling some form of relief for the first time in weeks since the tragic loss of one of his most trusted colleagues. He also knew exactly the kind of sardonic reaction that Ros would have to any expression of sorrow on her behalf and so Harry plucked his phone from his pocket, pulling the mask firmly back into place.

"Lucas. I'll be on the Grid in an hour."


End file.
